


and i run from wolves

by kiira



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-29
Updated: 2015-10-29
Packaged: 2018-04-28 17:24:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5099057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiira/pseuds/kiira
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>you’re trying hard not to read too far into it –– everyone tells you you’re too messy.</p><p> </p><p>OR</p><p>a rewrite of 'she's got a boyfriend anyway'</p>
            </blockquote>





	and i run from wolves

Buffy’s hands are on your hips and your hands are everywhere, anywhere you can put them, and all you can think of is Angel.

You wonder if she’s thinking of him too as her lips are tracing your collarbone, wonder if she’s pretending you’re some ancient evil while she’s kissing you.

It stings.

You’re always going to be second best, always knew you were a consolation prize but still: it hurts.

She sits back and looks at you, the same sad look she gets every time, just before she brushes grave dirt out of her hair and leaves.

/

It started one morning when you were skipping class in the library, knuckles bloody against the punching bag in the corner.

Giles doesn’t know you do this: walk out of English class, fight until you can pray on bone.

Someone taps your shoulder, and you spin around, her ribcage crunching under your fist before you’re backed up against the wall with her arm against your throat.

“Calm down, Faith, it’s me,” Buffy giggles, slightly breathless.

“You cutting class now, princess?”

She lets you go, and tosses her pony tail over her shoulder.

“I’ll let you know, you don’t have the monopoly on bad-girl rebel. I got expelled from my last school,” and you laugh, because it’s Buffy.

“I burned down the school, F,” and emerges from the weapons closet with the practice knives (dull, fake, won’t hurt, won’t hurt, won’t hurt), “Wanna practice?”

Tossing the knife to you, she smirks and comes closer, catlike and calculating. She’s careful and perfect, too good and you know as soon as she smiles you’re done.

/

She watches you, sad and angry and thoughtful all at once, and you think she’s going to hit you, or leave, or start to cry.

But somehow, she leans down and keeps kissing you, digs her nails into your back.

She tastes like graveyards, like dirt and sweat and death; she bites your lip and you don’t know whose blood you’re tasting, don’t think it ever really matters in the end.

Know this only ever lasts for the few precious moments after a hunt, while she’s still high on adrenaline, on blood, on murder.

/

Buffy’s dull knife spins –– she’s faster but you’re rougher, you’re better with knives. She fights like she’s been trained, perfect spin, perfect feint, like perfectly carved blocks fitting into place. You fight like you were trained: on the backlot behind the elementary school, after classes when you still went, trying to keep yourself alive and she’ll always beat you.

You’re trying hard not to read too far into it –– everyone tells you you’re too messy.

/

There’s a stake digging into a small, soft part of you but: you can’t be bothered to move it, can’t be bothered to do anything except claw your nails into Buffy’s hips a little tighter. Can’t have, don’t want her realizing who-what she’s kissing.

“When I fuck you,” she gasps into your mouth, pink lipgloss and blood, “will you lose your soul too?”

You just kiss her back harder because god you don’t know.

/

“You didn’t even put up a fight,” she giggles, and she’s got you pinned up against the wall with her knife against your throat. You should be thinking through your choices more, but she’s breathing hard, and smiling and it’s just too easy

It’s incredibly quick to lean forward and kiss her, your mouth messy hot against hers –– her knife presses harder into your skin and she makes a tiny surprised noise.

Slowly, you reach to your back pocket.

Slowly, you curl your arm around her neck, curl her closer to you.

She pulls away to gasp for air, and you press the knife under her jaw, press it into the lovely, vulnerable parts of her.

“You just lost, babe,” and dig the knife in so it draws blood, so she stands quite perfectly still.

/

She doesn’t talk to you for two weeks after that –– she puts a light green band-aid over the cut and when Willow makes a sympathetic noise and asks her where it came from, she laughs about a “doomed run-in with some spiky demon thing.”

Her lie is good until she looks at you.

/

You get up and slam the doors to the library behind you.

/

“Wait, Faith,” she calls, clicking down the school hallway in a pair of shoes that really should have gotten her killed on patrol years ago.

You make her follow you outside, out to the far parking lot, far from her friends, from anyone she can call for backup, before you spin on her, ready to hit her if you need to.

“You can’t do that, Faith,” and you’re not really sure what she’s talking about, but she keeps going, fingers twisting. “You can’t try to slit my neck and then pretend we’re ‘five by five’ or whatever you keep saying.”

“I wasn’t gonna kill you,” and your fingers itch for: a knife, for: the curve of Buffy’s jaw.

“That’s beside the point,” she snaps, and maybe she’s gonna be the one to hit you first.

“I wasn’t,” you say, burying the instinct to defend every weak point you have. “Besides, babe, I don’t kiss girls and then gut them. It’s in bad taste,” and she glares at you.

/

She shoves you up against a gravestone; you trace your fingers along the back of her skull.

“I’m not gonna hurt you,” you hiss and she digs her nails into your arms.

“You couldn’t if you tried.”

/

She will always leave you: she will always leave you alone in a graveyard. Will fix her hair, fill straighten her jacket and will turn on her heel; she will never look back at you, not even when your hands are still warm, not even when you can still feel her name in your mouth.

You watch her walk among the tombstones–– you are quite dangerously in love.

/

She smiles at you, and all you can remember is blood on your knife.

**Author's Note:**

> in which: i just give things titles from songs i like (in this case, wolves without teeth by of monsters and men)
> 
> (come hang out @ livvmoore.tumblr.com if u want)


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